“I shall have to trouble you for your sword, Sir,” said one of the Arsenal Guards, on duty here tonight.
“No,” had said another. “Do you not recognize him? That is Bosk, the Admiral, he of the Council of Captains.”
“Forgive me, Captain,” had said the man. “Enter as you are.”
“No,” I said. “It is perfectly all right.” I surrendered my sword to him, and the knife, too, I commonly carried, a quiva, a Tuchuk saddle knife, balanced for throwing. I myself had voted in the council for the checking of weapons before entering the piazza during carnival. The least I could do, it seemed to me, was to comply with a ruling which I myself had publicly supported.
I remembered now where I had seen the man who had spoken to me near the platform of the magician. He had been waiting near one of the checking points opening onto the piazza, that point through which I had entered. It was there that I had seen him.
The checking of the weapons is accomplished as follows: One surrenders the weapons and the guard, in turn, tears a ticket in two, placing one half with the weapons and giving you the other half. This ticket is numbered on both ends. In reclaiming the weapons one matches the halves, both with respect to division and number. My half of the ticket was now in my wallet. The ticket is of rence paper, which is cheap in Port Kar, owing to its proximity to one of Gor’s major habitats for the rence plant, the vast marshes of the Vosk’s delta.
“Captain,” said a voice.
I turned about. “Captain Henrius?” I asked. He, grinning, thrust up the mask. It was he. I thought I had recognized the voice. The young Captain Henrius was of the lineage of the Sevarii. Once he had been of my house but he now held sway in his own house. With him was his lovely slave, Vina, who once had been intended to be the companion of gross Lurius of Jad, then, sharing his throne, to be proclaimed the Ubara of Cos. She was now a slave in Port Kar. I had not recognized her immediately for the gaudy paints which had been applied to her body. She knelt beside Henrius, holding to his thigh, that she not be forced away from him in the crowd.
“Someone is looking for you,” said Henrius.
“Who?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“He suggests that you meet him among the purple booths, in Booth Seventeen.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Henrius, then, with a grin, readjusted his mask, drew Vina to her feet and, with her in tow, by an elbow, vanished in the crowd.
I looked after them. I was fond of them both.
A free woman, in swirling robes of concealment, veiled, appeared before me. “Accept my favor, please!” she laughed. She held forth the scarf, teasingly, coquettishly. “Please, handsome fellow!” she wheedled. “Please, please!” she said. “Please!”
“Very well,” I smiled.
She came quite close to me.
“Herewith,” she said, “I, though a free woman, gladly and willingly, and of my own free will, dare to grant you my favor!”
She then thrust the light scarf through an eyelet on the collar of my robes and drew it halfway through. In this fashion it would not be likely to be dislodged.
“Thank you, kind sir, handsome sir!” she laughed. She then sped away, laughing.
She had had only two favors left at her belt, I had noted. Normally in this game the woman begins with ten. The first to dispense her ten favors and return to the starting point wins. I looked after her, grinning. It would have been churlish, I thought, to have refused the favor. Too, she had begged so prettily. This type of boldness, of course, is one that a woman would be likely to resort to only in the time of carnival. The granting of such favors probably has a complex history. Its origin may even trace back to Earth. This is suggested by the fact that, traditionally, the favor, or the symbolic token of the favor, is a handkerchief or scarf. Sometimes a lady’s champion, as I understand it, might have borne such a favor, fastened perhaps to a helmet or thrust in a gauntlet.
It is not difficult, however, aside from such possible historical antecedents, and the popular, superficial interpretations of such a custom, in one time or another, to speculate on the depth meaning of such favors. One must understand, first, that they are given by free women and of their own free will. Secondly, one must think of favors in the sense that one might speak of a free woman granting, or selling, her favors to a male. To be sure, this understanding, as obvious and straightforward as it is, if brought to the clear light of consciousness, is likely to come as a revelatory and somewhat scandalous shock to the female. It is one of those cases in which a thing she has long striven to hide from herself is suddenly, perhaps to her consternation and dismay, made incontrovertibly clear to her. In support of this interpretation are such considerations as the fact that these favors, in these games, are bestowed by females on males, that, generally, at least, strong, handsome males seem to be the preferred recipients of such favors, that there is competition among the females in the distribution of these favors, and that she who first has her “favors” accepted therein accounts herself as somewhat superior to her less successful sisters, at least in this respect, and that the whole game, for these free women, is charged with an exciting, permissive aura of delicious naughtiness, this being indexed undoubtedly to the sexual stimulations involved, stimulations which, generally, are thought to be beneath the dignity of lofty free women.
In short, the game of favors permits free women, in a socially acceptable context, by symbolic transformation, to assuage their sexual needs to at least some small extent, and, in some cases, if they wish, to make advances to interesting males. There is no full satisfaction of female sexuality, of course, outside of the context of male dominance, a dominance which, at least in a civilized context, is expressed most adequately, most elegantly, most unconditionally, most perfectly, in the institution of total female bondage. I wondered what the free woman whose favor I wore would look like, stripped and in a collar. How would she look, how would she act, I wondered, if slave fires had been lit in her belly. I did not think she would then be distributing silken scarves to make known her needs to men. She must then do other things, such as putting a bondage knot in her hair, offering them wine or fruit, dancing naked before them, or kneeling before them, whimpering and whining for attention, licking and kissing at their feet and legs.
I saw again the woman in the collar, she who was stripped to the waist, she who had a brief bit of cloth tied about her hips. As our eyes met she looked away, quickly.
I took a step towards her and she turned hastily away, frightened, and began to make her way through the crowd. I followed her, indirectly, circling about. As I had expected, in a few moments she stopped and turned about, to see if I was following. She stood there, uncertainly, scanning the crowd, looking back the way she had come. Had she been pursued? She did not know. Then suddenly I stepped behind her and pulled her back against me. She could not move. She was as helpless, my hands upon her beauty, as one locked in one of the body cages of Tyros.
“Sir!” she said, frightened, stiffening.
“Sir?” I asked.
“Master!” she quickly said, correcting herself.
“You are a slave, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Yes, of course!” she said.
“Of course, what?” I asked.
“Of course, Master!” she said.
“You have nice breasts,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.
I slid my hands down her body, to her waist, and hips, holding her all the while.
“You have a nice body,” I said. “I think you would bring a good price on the slave block.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, pleased.
“Yes,” I said. “But what is this cloth at your hips?” I asked. “Its quality, incidentally, seems a bit too good to be accorded to a mere slave.” My hands, reaching about her, fumbled at the strings on her left hip.
“Do not remove it,” she begged, “please! Please!”
My hands pau
sed.
“As you are a mere slave,” I said, “what possible difference could it make?”
“Please,” she begged.
“Very well,” I said. I removed my hands from the string, but held her in place, facing away from me, by the waist.
“May I turn around?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
She shuddered with pleasure, commanded, placed under the will of a male.
“There are doubtless slavers in the piazza tonight,” I said. “If you do not want the collar, you should not invite it.”
“Master!” she protested, scandalized.
“You are courting the collar,” I said.
“As I am only a mere slave,” she said, “I could not possibly begin to understand the words of Master.”
She cried out as I, half spinning her about, tore the cloth from her hips.
“It seems your master forgot to brand you,” I said.
She snatched back the cloth and, angrily, as she could, refastened it about her hips.
“Take me to a pleasure rack,” she whispered, suddenly, tensely.
“You are a free woman,” I said. “Go yourself.”
“Never! Never!” she said. “You know I cannot do that!”
“Master,” said a voice. “I am a slave. Take me to a pleasure rack!”
I looked down. Kneeling on the tiles of the piazza at my feet was a naked slave.
“I have not forgotten your kiss,” she said. “Take me to a pleasure rack, I beg you!”
I remembered her. She was the naked, collared slave who, a few moments ago, had seized me and kissed me. I had returned her kiss, in the fashion of a master.
“I have sought you in the crowds,” she said.
The free woman cried out in fury.
I reached down and drew the slave to her feet and then, holding her by the arm, turned away from the free woman.
The free woman gasped, rejected, scorned, of less interest than a slave.
The slave now held my arm, I permitting it, closely, that she not be pulled away from me in the crowds.
“This is not the way to the pleasure racks,” she said.
“You must be patient,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she moaned, pressing more closely against me. She would be patient. She had no choice in the matter. She was a slave.
I looked back and saw the free woman, turned away, forlorn, her arms clutched about herself, half crouched over. Her body shook with sobs. She trembled with need. I saw that she had strong drives. I smiled. Such drives would bring her, sooner or later, to a man’s feet, the only place they can be satisfied.
I paused to watch a portion of a farce. I would let the girl clinging to me increase in her heat.
It is good to let the flames rise in a female.
They are then well ready, acutely sensitized, every bit of their skin alive, beggingly docile, and grateful.
Sometimes one waits until they are beside themselves with need. It is pleasant then, sometimes, to toy with them.
There are many pleasures in the mastery.
The girl playing the part of the Golden Courtesan was not unlike Rowena, whom I remembered from three nights ago in the holding of Samos. She had something of the same beauty, the same figure, the same long, golden tresses. The role of the Golden Courtesan, incidentally, when it occurs in more sophisticated Gorean comedy is usually played, like the other roles in such comedies, and in most forms of serious drama, masked. One possible reason for this, though I think tradition probably has much more to do with it, is that such roles in more sophisticated comedy, like roles in more serious drama, are generally played by men. In the major dramatic forms Goreans generally, mistakenly, in my opinion, keep women off the stage. Some feel this practice is a result of the fact that women’s voices carry less well than men’s voices in the open-air theaters. Given the superb acoustics of many of these theaters, however, in which a coin dropped on the stage is clearly audible in the upper tiers, I feel the practice is more closely connected with tradition, or jealousy, than acoustics. Too, it might be noted that many dramatic masks have megaphonic devices built into them which tend to amplify the actors’ voices. If women are generally precluded from participation in the major dramatic forms, they are, however, more than adequately represented in the great variety of minor forms which exist on Gor, such as low comedy, burlesque, mime, farce and story dance. To be sure, these women are usually slaves. Free women, on the whole, affect to find the professional stage, particularly in its manifestations in the minor forms, unspeakably disgusting and indecent; they feign horror at the very thought of themselves going on the stage; would it not be horrifying to be so scandalously exhibited; it would be much the same thing, surely, as being displayed publicly on a slave platform or a slave block. They usually attend performances incognito.
I have mentioned that masks are commonly worn in serious drama and sophisticated comedy, such as it is; I might also mention that they are not worn in most of the minor forms, such as mime or story dance, unless called for by the plot, as in the case of brigands, and so on; farce, on the other hand, represents an interesting case for in it some characters commonly wear masks and others do not; the Comic Father, the Pedant, usually depicting a member of the Scribes, and the Timid Captain, for example, are usually masked, whereas the young lovers, the Golden Courtesan, the Desirable Heiress, and others, are not. Some roles, those of saucy free maids, comic servants, and such, may or may not be masked, depending on the troupe. As you may have gathered many of the characters in Gorean comedy and in the minor forms are, for the most part, stock characters. Again and again one meets pompous merchants, swaggering soldiers, fortune tellers, parasites, peasants and slaves.
These stock characters are well known to Gorean audiences and welcomed by them. For example, the Pompous Merchant and the Wily Peasant are well known. The audience is already familiar with them, from numerous performances in dozens of plays and farces, many of them largely improvised around certain standard types of situations. They know generally how the characters will act and are fond of them. They are familiar even with mannerisms and dialects. Who would accept the Comic Father if he did not have his Turian accent, or the Desirable Heiress if she did not speak in the soft accents of Venna, north of Ar? What would the Timid Captain be if he did not, beneath his long-nosed half-mask, have those fierce mustaches to twirl, the formidable wooden sword dragging behind him? Even gestures and grimaces are well known, looked for, and eagerly awaited. This type of familiarity, of course, gives the actor a great deal to build on. The character, even before he greets the audience in the initial parade of the actors, is for most practical purposes established, and in rich, complex detail; furthermore it is anticipated with relish and welcomed with affection. This being the case it is interesting to note that one actor’s Merchant is not the same Merchant as that of another actor. Somehow, within the outlines of the role, and the traditional business associated with it, these actors manage to make their versions unique and special onto themselves. I suspect that there are no purely interpretative arts; all arts, I suspect, are ultimately creative.
“Please, Master,” whimpered the girl holding my arm, pressing herself against me. “Please, Master.”
I looked to one side, to the ground at the side of the raised platform. Two girls were there, standing back, waiting. Judging from the brevity of their bell-like skirts, given that shape doubtless by a lining of crinoline, and their bare arms, with puffed, short sleeves, I took them to be Saucy Maidens, probably a Bina and a Brigella. The Brigella, in particular, was lovely. I had little doubt if I should tip those skirts to the side I should encounter slave brands. The skirts, incidentally, are made to tip. This is utilized in various sorts of stage business. For example, one comic servant may pretend to inadvertently drop larmas, one by one, off a platter, which the girl, one by one, bends over to retrieve, another servant behind her. Then, while the girl chides them for their clumsiness, they change places and, to h
er feigned exasperation, repeat the trick. The skirt may also be lifted up, for example, by the wily Peasant, reportedly looking for a lost ox, and so on. The audience, of course, generally has the same preferred coign of vantage as the lucky servant or the Wily Peasant.
With the two girls was a rather paunchy, harassed-looking fellow, with long sideburns and a rimless cap. Another fellow, a sailmaker, I think, was negotiating with him for his Golden Courtesan. The paunchy fellow was shaking his head. He did not wish, surely, to sell her off the stage during a performance. The sailmaker was willing to wait. Then it seemed that the paunchy fellow, though sorely tempted, decided to hold on to the girl. Doubtless he needed the money, but what would he do without a Golden Courtesan? She probably also played the role of the Desirable Heiress. The same girl is often used for both roles. I looked back to the stage. The Golden Courtesan was probably unaware that she had nearly changed hands.
“Master,” whimpered the girl beside me.
“Kneel,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she moaned, and knelt beside me. I did not wish her to interrupt the performance.
I looked back to the paunchy fellow and saw him, with his swaying belly, looking out into the crowd, somewhat apprehensively. The two girls with him, the Bina and the Brigella, seemed somewhat ill at ease, too.
I returned my attention to the stage.
The Golden Courtesan, facing away, was now feigning indifference to the suits of both the Comic Father and the Pedant. Two servants, Lecchio and Chino, are also in attendance. Chino, usually the servant of the Comic Father or the Merchant, is willowy and mischievous, with a black half-mask, with slanted eye holes, with red-and-yellow diamond-figured tights and pullover. Lecchio, usually the servant of the Pedant, is short and fat, a willing dupe of Chino and a sharer in his fun. He wears a brown tunic with a hood which he sometimes pulls over his head to hide embarrassment. The Comic Father and the Pedant pursue their suits. Chino and Lecchio conspire. Chino kicks the Comic Father and then looks away, studying clouds. In a moment Lecchio kicks the Pedant. This is repeated several times. Soon the Comic Father and the Pedant, each thinking the other is the assailant, are in furious controversy. It seems they will fight. Chino, followed by Lecchio, points out that their rich garments might be soiled, that their wallets might even be lost in such a scuffle. The Comic Father and the Pedant then give their robes and wallets to the servants and begin to berate one another and pull beards. The servants, of course, immediately don the garments and, swinging the wallets on their strings, meaningfully parade in front of the Golden Courtesan who, of course, taking them for rich suitors, goes away with them. The Comic Father and the Pedant, now without their robes and wallets, soon discover the trick. Crying out they give chase to the servants.
Players of Gor Page 6